Otherwise
by latetothpartyhp
Summary: AU. Chloe Sullivan never lived in Smallville, but she is about to have a close encounter with one of it's residents. Inspired by the fanon fridays prompt: If I never knew you / I'd be safe but half but half as real.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** Contains what is probably an very unrealistic depiction of sex work and psychotherapy, and sex that may be considered of dubious consent. There will probably also be some violence and strong language used. I don't at this point plan on killing anyone.

_Man would be "otherwise." That's the essence of the specifically human. ~Antonio Machado___

  
_**Diagnosis: **__Genophobia associated with a fear of harming partner. __Client's anxiety has not lead to erectile dysfunction, but has produced symptoms associated with panic disorder, including feelings of terror, shaking, sweating, increased heart rate and hot flashes. Anxiety is anticipatory, as client fears but claims to avoid any situation that would lead to arousal when another person is present. __Anxiety seems to stem mainly from a distorted view of his physical capabilities; his main stated fear is that arousal will lead to a loss of self-control such that he will reflexively maim or kill the person he is with._

_**History: **__Client does not report fear of non-sexual touching, initiated either by himself or others, but is acutely anxious that he may hurt a partner during most varieties of sexual contact. Client's denies having been sexually abused, or having witnessed sexual violence or molestation. Client also denies perpetrating any sexual abuse or violence himself._

Client states that he has had sexual contact on two occasions in the past, both during his teens. He claims both experiences were positive, but the later death of one of his partners may have contributed to his current condition (note that said partner's death was unrelated to physical contact with client). Client is aware that no significant physical changes have occurred to his body that would render him more capable of doing harm since that time, but nevertheless says those situations were "unique". Responses to further questioning suggess a level of emotional involvement in his partners he has not experienced since. It is my hypothesis that his expressed inability to trust the limits of his physical strength is a defense mechanism constructed to protect himself from revealing emotional weakness to a potential lover. I believe this hypothesis is supported by the fact that his living former partner is currently married to a man with whom the client had and has a long-standing adversarial relationship: client is acutely afraid both of loss and perceived betrayal.

_**Treatment plan: **__Client has refused physical examination and medication. Treatment therefore will consist of cognitive therapy provided by Dr. Foster and emotive-behavioral conditioning with Dr. Foster's associate. Treatment plan will consist of weekly visits with Dr. Foster to discover and examine thought patterns that contribute to his anticipatory anxiety and to provide guidance for stress management. Behavioral conditioning will occur if and when Dr. Foster and client agree that he is able to construct a positive mental framework for inter-personal relationships, including sexual relationships, and that he is able to manage the symptoms of his anxiety.__  
_

He was late, and when he finally did arrive, she had to blink a few times before she realized he was, in fact, her client. For one thing, he was huge - he had to be a good foot taller than she. For another, he was not unattractive. Not that her clients weren't attractive, but usually they were not quite this young. Or stunning. Ever.

She probably spent a good five or six seconds gaping like a confused salmon before he finally spoke. "Are you, uh, are you Kaylee?"

"I am! Yes. I am! I'm Kaylee!" she said from her daze. _You're supposed to be a professional, Sullivan. Calm down_. "How do you do?"

"Ok." He looked nervous, his eyes darting around the hall, too nervous, it seemed, to remember the instructions Claire had given him.

"I hate to ask," she began, "but - "

"Oh, yeah." He dug into his breast pocket and took out an envelope. She broke open the seal with her thumb-nail and ripped it raggedly open. The documents matched those that had been previously emailed to her. For some reason - the 6'2" and gorgeous reason - this made her happy, but she forced herself to smile like a grown-up and not a demented teenager. "Won't you come in?"

"I suppose you can't be too cautious," he said. Suit, tie, oxfords. All very conservative, and again, all very unusual. Clients were advised to wear what they would find comfortable. Khakis were typical. From his lateness she guessed he'd been held up at the office, hadn't had time to run home and change. Was job stress a contributing factor? Nothing to say so on his profile. She'd have to ask.

"I've haven't had a problem yet, but I have to check. Your name is Charles?"

"Yes, I - that's not my real name. " He pushed up his glasses. "Dr. Foster suggested it."

"For the record, I wasn't christened 'Kaylee' either, so you made out better than I did. 'Charles' sounds distinguished, like you have a summer place on Martha's Vineyard. 'Kaylee' makes me sounds as if I dot my i's with hearts."

"I thought 'Charles' made me sound like a chauffeur."

She laughed. Tall, handsome, genuinely self-deprecating. Women should be swarming all over him. No, women probably were swarming all over him, and with his issues he wouldn't know how to deal. And she was the lucky dame who got to teach him how and then never see him again. Lucky, lucky she.

"You don't look like a chauffeur," she said. More like a pool boy. A very well paid pool boy. "I'm guessing ... lawyer?" She walked across the room to the kitchenette that clung against the wall; she was going to need to relieve her own awkwardness before she helped him with his. Nothing did that like a cup of security coffee. "You want something to drink? I've got orange juice, soda water, Coke, Mountain Dew, coffee, green tea. No alcohol, though. Doctor's orders."

"No, thanks."

"You mind if I make myself a cup?" She waved a bag of beans.

"No, please - " He said something else but it was lost under the whirl of the grinder.

"What was that?"

"I asked if you lived here."

She scooped the grounds into the basket and tamped them down.

"No, Dr. Foster leases this place. But I did help decorate it."

"It's nice. It's colorful." He watched her watch the espresso pour for a moment, then said, "I'm an accountant."

"That would have been my next guess!" she shouted over the steamer.

His lips twitched. "Do I look that boring?"

Her ears pricked. It was her job, within some limits, to be honest. On the other hand, while only one of her clients had been specifically diagnosed with a dysmorphic disorder, body image issues were usually a big component of why they were here. She needed to be tactful, too. She made a show of painting the bottom of her mug with chocolate syrup.

"No." Because the man really couldn't, even trying as hard as he was. "Suits are pretty unusual these days, now that most people think 'casual' Friday means flip-flops and cut-offs. So I thought: a suit equals somebody who tells other people what to do with their money. Lawyer, accountant, consultant. Or politician," she smiled, "but you seem too upright for that."

He gave a breathy little chuckle. "No, I - I'm not a politician."

_But you wanted to be? Or did someone out-schmooze you to a promotion? Or to a girl? _She put a mental foot down on her curiosity. He was just another client. His looks did not make him special. Weird, maybe. Not special. _And now the conversation is lagging, because you Sullivan are too caught up in this guy to do your job. Well, one of your jobs._

"It's good to know you're an honest man," she said quickly to cover her pause. "I always do too much milk. You don't want any, do you? Or cocoa? " She held up the steamer pitcher in one hand and the syrup bottle in the other. "I make a killer mug of cocoa."

His lips twitched a little higher, and in the two-tenths of a second they did her body forgot how to breathe.

"As long as I don't keel over dead before the session is over," he said.

"Hm?"

"The cocoa? I don't want die..." he trailed off. He'd been trying to make a joke, and she'd missed it staring. Jesus. She had to get a hold of herself, or she would never be able to look Claire in the eye at their debriefing session.

"Trust me," she chippered. "You will only think you've gone to heaven."

But the momentum had gone out of him, she could tell. It could have been the mention of death, except per the information she did have, it wasn't his own death he feared. Maybe it was time they got down to business. Most clients, despite their initial nerves, were relieved to confront the purpose of their visits to her. "So, what did Dr. Foster tell you about what we would be doing?" she asked, dripping syrup into another mug. It was good to have something to do with her hands.

"Uh, well, she said these would be practice sessions, and I should, um, make a list of things that would, uh, bother me and we would go through them." The entire time he spoke he fidgeted with his glasses, pushing them up, lifting the bows from his ears, re-balancing them. Someone else who wanted something to do with his hands, although she suspected it had less to do with the magnificence of her physique and more with that whole confronting-his-purpose thing. She handed him the cocoa. "You might want to let it - "she said as he took a big, nervous gulp, "cool down."

"No, it's perfect. I'm fine." Something odd about the way he said that, so eagerly, made her pause. "I brought a list," he continued, pulling a another, quarter-folded sheet from his breast pocket. "Dr. Foster told me to think about it in terms of 'escalating intimacy'. Like in a relationship." He pushed up his glasses again and gave her a dubious little stare.

"But we're not in a relationship," she supplied.

"No." He looked relieved to hear her say it. "It's not that you don't seem very nice..."

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do." She leaned in conspiratorially. "You don't even have to follow me to the couch and sit down if you don't want to. Dr. Foster never has to know." She nodded, walked the ten steps to the couch, and sat. He followed her, gingerly testing his weight on it before sinking down. She wondered if he did that with the furniture in the office and if Claire had noticed it. More fear of harm. She took another sip of her coffee. "Does it feel fake or wrong to you to do the things on your list with someone you're not partnered with?"

"It feels a little theatrical, I guess. Like it's not for real. I know it's just supposed to be like a dry run, but what kind of practice is it if I don't feel all the things I'd be feeling with a girlfriend?"

"Do you think you're able to do any of the things you want to do with a 'real' girlfriend right now?"

"No, you're right," he said, acknowledging her implied statement. "It's just this doesn't feel like the way it should be." Her breath hitched a little at the forlorn tone in his voice. _You're not his 'real' girlfriend and you are not here to make it the way it 'should' be. Remember that. Kthnx._

"Someday," she told both of them, "it will be the way it should be, with someone you really do care about. What Dr. Foster and I want to do is help you be ready for that." He adjusted his glasses and nodded. "May I see your list?"

"Sure." He handed it to her and began wiping his palms on his thighs. The profile had mentioned panic attacks. Did he have one coming on? Better let him have some time to manage it before she said anything. He' have plenty of it while she read through his scrawl. The list synced with what she'd read about him, but the items were in an odd order if he had indeed listed them according to increasing intimacy. Number one was "Fall asleep in the same bed with a woman." She would have placed that at least after item four, "Sit with a woman on my lap." And numbers nine and ten were downright scary. The file said he'd denied being a victim of abuse, but she couldn't imagine why anyone would include that if they hadn't been. She sipped her coffee.

"Did you discuss these with Dr. Foster before coming here?"

"Yes. I did."

"Did she say anything specific to you about these last two?"

"Just that she thought it was a good idea to include them." His hands were gripping knees now, white-knuckled and tense.

"Do you feel comfortable talking about them now?"

"No. I'm sorry. I don't." His jaw thrust out just a little, like a defiant toddler's. 'Nuff said.

"You don't need to apologize."

"I'm so- " He stopped at her smile, and mercifully managed stretch his lips in return.

"Ok," she said. "Where do you want to start?"

A/N: Unlike Chloe, I am fond of the name "Kaylee". It's the name of one of my favorite Whedon characters, Kaylee Frye, who I believe would have told Chloe: "Have good sex!" as she embarked on this adventure. 


	2. Chapter 2

Part 2 – In which there is mostly exposition about other parts of Chloe and Clark's lives. More smutty-type stuff to follow in Part 3.

* * *

_An unfulfilled vocation drains the color from a man's entire existence. ~Honoré de Balzac_

_

* * *

_

"So," Claire said. "Last night. General impressions. What were they?"

"He's very repressed."

The good doctor smiled. "You think?"

"More so than usual. Most of these guys, they're house-full-of-tiny-glass-animals repressed. They've just been waiting for their gentlewoman callers. This guy is mummified-mother-in-a-rocking-chair repressed."

"You think he's dangerous?"

Chloe paused, mulling the question. She had no experience with genuine psychopaths, but she'd guess they'd have more to hide than the average 40-year-old virgin. He'd been more nervous than most, but she hadn't sensed any subterfuge. No more so than the usual. "No. Poor choice of words on my part."

"Your opinion, or did the 'little green rocks' kick in?"

Chloe mulled again. It was often hard to know when her ability was rearing its head. No special tingle or aura or headache - she just knew. The question was, did she _know_ this guy hadn't been hiding anything from her? "My opinion," she decided. "I'd probably have to spend more time with him to get a good read. His nerves were just so overwhelming. His cortisol had to be off the charts. Do you think he's ready for this?"

"I am really going to rue the day I showed up late and you decided the _Journal of Cognitive Psychotherapy_ would make for good light reading, aren't I? Intellectually, yes. He recognizes the thought patterns that lead to the anxiety, he's learned how to counter them, he knows how to calm himself during panic, he even scores fairly well on tests of inter-personal aptitude. Oh, and he doesn't fit the criteria for an antisocial personality, in case you're wondering."

"He didn't sleep at all last night. You have any idea what it's like trying to fall asleep next to someone who's stiff as a corpse? It's like trying to fall asleep next to a corpse."

"Wouldn't hear me complaining. My husband flopped like fish for twenty-three years."

"You know what I mean. He was petrified."

"Did you try anything to help him relax? Hot milk, aromtherapy?"

"No. He asked me not get up. He said he wanted everything to be 'normal'."

"Did he say what he meant by that?"

She thought for a moment. All of the men she'd worked with had had their own, private definition of what that meant - and they all believed their lives didn't fit it. Since usually Chloe agreed, she hadn't questioned them too closely about their thinking. "No. I guess I assumed 'normal' meant not getting up at night."

"That's the problem, right there. We all have this secret expectation of the way things ought to be and when reality doesn't measure up to it we go a little crazy. Or our clients do at least. Next time he uses that word, or that concept, I want you to call him on it. Find out what he means."

"He did seem to have issues with the idea of sex without emotional involvement. He said it wasn't much good to practice with someone he didn't have feelings for."

"What did you say?"

"I asked him if he thought he could be intimate at this point with someone he did have feelings for and he said no. But I don't think that helped him get over the electrified fence in his mind. You want to know what we did before we took turns brushing our teeth for bed? We played cribbage."

"With the little board and the pegs?"

"Yeah. His parents have cousins in Minnesota; I guess it's all the rage there."

"You understand this process is about increasing his comfort level, not checking off items on a to-do list, right?"

Which question lent itself directly to observing the ginormous pink elephant in this guy's mental living room: a few of his decidedly non-normal objectives. "Speaking of which. I'm ... concerned about the last few items."

"You mean the 'no-hitting-or-biting' discussion?"

"Which I assume he's planning on dropping on an unsuspecting girlfriend right before Item Ten: telling her she just has to accept certain things without expecting any explanation. I've tried and tried, but I can't think of any reason for including those things unless he was abused himself, and the fact that he's not willing to share that - "

"Learning how to define boundaries takes practice. That's why you're here; you're natural response is to challenge that, which is good. He needs to learn how to negotiate that kind of sharing. On the other hand, it won't help him if you label him off the bat. We don't know for sure that he's in denial. He may be telling the truth."

"What else could it possibly be?"

Claire didn't answer. It took a minute for Chloe to realize why.

"You think he's - _Claire_."

"I'm sorry, it was unprofessional of me not to ask before-hand. I didn't want your impressions affected by mine, and I was hoping you'd have a stronger sense of him at your first meeting."

"Really? Unprofessional? That's it? What if he was a psychopath and something had happened?"

"If I thought he was he never would have gotten that address. The only difference between this guy and every other guy I send your way is that with this guy - "

"Is possibly a meteor mutant. That's the difference, but you weren't sure, so you decided to shoot for seven with me as the dice. Mother of God. If you really think he is why haven't you referred him to Isis?"

"I've mentioned it to him. He very politely declined. Since you've read his profile, you'll have noticed he's also refused a physical. I can't force him to do anything or go anywhere."

"And while you don't think he's dangerous, you're what - _concerned_?"

"For him, yes. He's a patient. I would be remiss in my duty as a doctor if I didn't attempt a full diagnosis."

"Are you going to break into his house and analyze the lunch meat in his fridge?"

"That's not fair - "

"I'm just wondering what the parameters are here. Do you want me to go through his wallet, maybe plant a bug on him? I know! Maybe I can stress him to the point where his mutation flares up uncontrollably! We'll get some good data then."

"Chloe, I am sorry." She stared at the top of her desk for a few seconds before continuing. "Like I said earlier, I didn't want to prejudice you in any way. But I can understand if you feel unsafe. If you don't want to continue with this client, I'll understand. I'm not not seeing anyone else right now who may need your services, though."

Chloe found herself fingering the bracelet she'd been asked to wear whenever she was at Isis. Claire had asked her to wear it to their meetings; she didn't think it was a good idea for Chloe to have regular contact with a board member without it. it dampened her ability, but she had known the doctor was lying long before their work together began. "No, of course I don't want to do that. You just - you have to fill me in. I'm feeling a little Joe Theismann-esque here right now."

Claire's face relaxed into her accustomed impassivity. "You're telling me you know who Joe Theismann is?"

"I'm a quick study. Two dates with Steve from Sports and I can even tell you Theismann's the reason why the Sharks decided not to draft Tim Tebow."

"Funny how that relationship didn't go anywhere."

"I know. Crazy. Listen, you'll call me after your next session with this guy and let me know if he says anything important, right?"

"Of course. No more double-blind experiments," she smiled. "You have my word."

* * *

He'd been late last night. He'd been nervous. He'd sat in his assigned cubicle, staring sightlessly at some document he was supposed to match to some other document, until he realized that he was supposed to have been there five minutes ago and the only way he would be able to get to that part of town in 30 minutes or less was to use his speed.

He'd thought about canceling. He hated using his speed; there was so much that could go wrong, and it wasn't as if the extra sessions were necessary. Dr. Foster had said he didn't have to do them if he wasn't comfortable with the idea. And what kind of woman could she be, anyway, to do that for a living? He'd had visions of knocking on the door and having it opened by an orange-skinned Ashley Dupre in white bikini bottoms and nothing else. He didn't know if he would fry her on the spot with his heat vision or explode from embarrassment.

In the end he'd heard Randall tromping around, making a show of staying late to the client and he figured anything was better than having that prick "accidentally" run into him. He sped out, making it there only a quarter of an hour later than he said he would be, and when she had opened the door and she had looked ... very normal. Normal, un-orange skin tone; normal, knee-length skirt; normal (if clingy) sweater with a v-neck you could only see down if you were a lot taller than she was. And she'd made a normal cup of coffee and offered him a normal cup of cocoa, all the while smiling this easy, sexy smile that made her look just for a second a little like Alicia. Which of course meant he'd gone and made some really dumb joke about death.

Not that she minded. She probably hadn't even noticed it, the way she talked right past it. Which she did very well. He guessed she'd had a lot of practice at talking past all the dumb things freaks and geeks like him said. Not one of them was a freaky as he was though. Even she seemed to sense that. He could tell by the concern in her voice as she'd discussed his list. She just had no idea exactly how many standard deviations from the norm he was. He knew what she'd been thinking: that he'd been molested or assaulted. Dr. Foster had asked him about it straight-0ut. He'd denied it reflexively, then regretted when he realized the issue wasn't going to go away. It would have been a thousand times easier to let them think he'd been an abused kid than to keep dodging the continual unspoken questions.

At least she didn't keep staring at him like he'd broken her heart by not telling. She wasn't his girlfriend; she understood that he didn't owe her any answers. So why did he still feel as if he did? Years of conditioning, he guessed. And that was all this was supposed to be about: counter-conditioning him to be comfortable in a normal, healthy sexual relationship. That's all. She wasn't his girlfriend. They were just going to sleep together. So to speak.

If he could work up the courage to do that. He hadn't even had the courage to _fall_ asleep. She was so small, no taller than Lana had been once she took off her shoes. She didn't give off that some feeling of breakability that Lana had, but you wouldn't have to be super-powered to hurt someone that tiny. Of course, he could probably kill Michael Oher while asleep. Size didn't matter.

Which is why this was not going to work. Not with her, not with anyone. He should cancel his next appointment, call Dr. Foster and tell her he was done. He would do it just as soon as he got off the phone with whoever was jackass enough to call him at this very moment.

"Clark Kent."

"Oh sweetie, I'm so glad you picked up. You weren't answering your cell last night and I got worried."

"I'm fine. I'm at work right now - "

"Yes, I know, I called the front desk and they patched me through. Listen, I don't have much time, my plane's about to take off but I wanted to find out how your appointments with Dr. Foster are going."

"They're going. Uh, they're going well, but like I said I'm at work right now so maybe we could talk about this some other time?"

"I understand, it's just that the liaison the Pentagon has assigned us seems like a very nice girl. Her name's Diana, I think you'd like her a lot and I just want to know if its ok for me to give her your information. I'll text you a photo of her, she's very pretty."

"That's cool. Yeah." He stared blankly at the stained fabric of the cubicle wall in front of him. Shit. Thinkthinkthink. "But," he added, "we're not exactly in the same city. So. Yeah."

"I get the impression she spends a lot of time in Metropolis for her job - "

"Hey! Yeah, I'll be there in a sec," he called out over his shoulder to no one in particular. "I gotta go," he said into the receiver. "Client needs to see me in his office."

"Oh dear, I hope everything's alright."

"Um, yeah, it probably is, but duty calls, so have a good flight. I'll talk to you later."

"I love you sweetie."

"M-hm. Me too." He watched the timer on the phone's LCD screen disappear before he hung up.

Shit.

.

Oh, this was not happening. His mother was not trying to set him up with some military attaché Amazon. Because that would be -

"Hey Kent? What's this about Souders needing to talk to us in her office?"

Aaaaannnndddd... enter Randall. Jesus, the guy was everywhere.

"It's nothing, it's - my mother decided now was a good time to call and catch up on current events. I needed to get her off the phone."

"Oh. You expecting a big call?"

"No, just gotta get this month done for Welling."

"Well I get outta your hair then. If that month's for Welling and it's not done yet it's already late. Hey - tell your mom I said hi."

"Yeah, you got that right," he answered.

He turned back to his screen and slumped. Randall might be a weasely little kiss-ass, but he was right about Welling. He started typing. Someday they would invent a computer that could process as fast as he could and then he could really get some work done.


	3. Chapter 3

_I am much better employed from every point of view, when I live solely for my own satisfaction, than when I begin to worry about the world. The world frightens me, and a frightened man is no good for anything. ~George Gissing_

  
He was legitimately late for their next appointment; he'd needed extra documentation the client hadn't been able to find, and by the time she did it was time for him to leave. She didn't seem too upset; she'd answered the door with another one of those wide smiles she gave so easily, and kept it while she made herself another coffee and him another cocoa. Smiling like she was actually happy to see him again, like she'd been looking forward to seeing him again. _Of course she's smiling at you, asshole; you're her incoming revenue stream_, said a voice uncomfortably like Randall's.

_Shut up_, he told it.

He smiled at clients, too, clients he didn't particularly like, clients who hated him because he piled more work on their desks and pointed out their mistakes, and that didn't make him a bad person. It made him a professional. Like he was sure Kaylee was. A professional. She was a professional. Professionalism was why he was here. Only an idiot, or some jerk-off like Randall, would get on her case for not being emotionally honest. Who wanted that in their ordinary relationships, anyway? Did Randall expect the women he dated to be upfront about what an ass he was?

Obviously not. Nobody did, which is why nobody ever really told anyone else what they were really thinking. Kaylee, for instance, could be thinking anything beneath that smile. That he was an ass. Or that she was cold and wanted to put on something warmer but she had to entertain a client and that meant she had to wear a shirt with no back and a deeper v-neck than before - which, weirdly, exposed less than the sweater she'd worn last week. How did that work? He sipped his cocoa and watched her pour the espresso for her coffee, pondering the mystery of women's clothes. She had a quick, precise way of moving that reminded him of a robin - head tilted, one eye to the ground, then a brisk bob down and up again with a worm. The shirt, if you could call it that, moved with her. Maybe that was the difference: the sweater had been looser, so it kind of gaped in the front, while this top clung and covered more. She made a fast little tilt away from him, pulling another mug out of the cupboard with a tug, eyes bright, moving just enough to pucker the fabric over her chest.

" - brought a movie?"

He looked up quickly when he realized where he'd been staring. "Sorry. I was zoning."

"Dr. Foster said you were bringing a movie," she repeated. She was giving him a funny look now, as if to say, "_Sure you were_." He felt his heart speed up.

"Yeah, I did, I uh... " He fished around in his backpack. "I thought, you know, give it some context." Where was the damn thing? He'd checked twice before he'd left to make sure he'd remembered it and she was standing there, waiting for him, probably thinking he was an idiot now on top of being a perv and a freak and -

There it was. Right where he put it. In the front zipper pocket. For easy access. So he wouldn't look like an dork digging through his bag.

Good thing he'd been thinking ahead like that.

"Like an actual date," he finished. He handed her the DVD case and pushed up his glasses. Great. Now he was sweating. What the hell was his problem? It wasn't like it was a real date, just a practice one. And like Dr. Foster had said in their session, he was there for himself and not his anybody else, and he shouldn't feel encumbered by the way things "should" be, because things were never the way they should be. Except he couldn't help watching her as she read the movie description, looking for some kind of sign: Was she intrigued? Did she think it was lame? He clenched his fists and reminded himself it wasn't a disaster if she didn't like it. He might not even like it. This was not about impressing her. At all.

"This looks like a Christmas movie," she said.

"Is that a problem?" A sudden thought occurred to him. "Are you Jewish? Crap. I didn't even think - "

"No, I'm not anything, really. It's fine. And Thanksgiving's only ... six weeks away. 'Tis the season almost right now. You want popcorn?"

Under normal circumstances he could chew and digest "D" batteries without a problem, not that he ever did, but there was no way his stomach was going to accept popcorn from him right now. She however seemed determined to make it, so he wandered over to the huge CRT t.v. that had been piled on the breakfast table. The table being the only flat surface in the place and the back of the sofa butting right against it, she'd faced the screen toward the bed. Which was cool. He squinted, adjusting his vision. Looked like the mattress had a pillow-top. That looked comfortable. And it was big. Plenty of room to stretch out. Or, you know. Whatever.

"Ready?" He flinched. She was somehow right beside him, holding up his cocoa.

"Yeah, sure," he answered, taking the mug. Pressing "Menu" did nothing. Neither did "Play". Were the batteries dead?

"Here." She handed him another remote, one that had been hiding on the other side of the box. "You need to press 'Game'."

"Huh?"

"On the t.v. remote. You have to press the 'Game' button."

He hit it. The movie menu appeared. She patted the bed beside her. "Have a seat."

He shuffled over. He totally would have had that figured out. Eventually. If she'd just given him a minute figure out the system.

"So is this an old favorite?" she asked. Something ... wiggled ... beneath him just as he sat, an odd, rippling sensation that made his gut tighten. What -? Oh God. Her hand.

"Would you mind - "

"No! Sorry! I'm so sorry. I - " His slight sense of irritation dissolved into a slight sense of horror.

"It's ok!" she interrupted. "See: everything works!" She held up her hand and rolled her fingers the way she had under him. He relaxed. A little.

"You sure?"

"Please. I've slammed my hand in my desk drawer harder than that." She arched a brow at him. "This isn't your way of avoiding my question, is it? You don't have a secret collection of Christmas-themed romantic comedies, do you?"

He stared at her a second before realizing she was teasing him. He pushed his glasses up. He should think of something to say. He was still sort of reeling from the accident he might have caused though.

"No. It's more, uh, winter-themed," he tried. "And dramas, actually. _Dr. Zhivago_. Stuff like that."

"Really? _Dr. Zhivago_?" Her smile was half doubtful, half intrigued.

"Sure," he said. If only because his mother had sobbed her heart out to it at least once a year since he was little. So he had seen it, but the weight of the lie in his joke - it was only a joke - was pressing on him. If she asked him any more questions he wouldn't have any answers. "I actually don't know too much about movies," he confessed. "I found this on a website of 50 best date movies." Plus, it had been in the video cabinet on the farm. He'd wanted something he could trust, since the whole situation made him twitchy. The movie had been Dr. Foster's suggestion; she'd liked the idea of trying to create realistic scenarios, but she'd thought that something that got him into closer contact than the game had would be better. "Just try it out, see how you feel," she'd said.

So far, between his backpack and the remotes, he'd felt like the planet idiot. And he could have hurt her. He hadn't been paying attention when he sat down. He needed to be especially aware here, needed to know exactly when his body was on the verge of...

Her hand - the one he'd trapped - curled over his. From the speakers, some narrator with a British accent began talking about Heathrow airport and how love was everywhere.

"Is this ok?"

He nodded. She squeezed his hand lightly and turned back to the movie. He turned to the screen too, but all his attention was on the little hand in his, the bare arm curled over his, the denim-clad thigh next to his. He'd sat like this before next to women. Never knowing he had to - He didn't have to do anything, he told himself. She wasn't going to be disappointed or cry or ask what was wrong with him anyway or tell him she needed him to treat her like a woman. He could sit here the whole night if he wanted to, just listening to her heart under the dialogue of the movie, smelling the lavender coming off her clothes and some musky orange scent from behind her ears. He didn't have to do anything except lean back and feel her body breathe against his arm, calm and steady. It was as if some golden haze had settled over him, both electric and soothing.

On the screen the woman from that period movie his mom liked was telling the guy from _Schindler's List_ nobody was ever going to want to shag him if he was crying all the time. From within the haze he felt her hand slipping out of his and then her thumb and forefinger squeezing the pad of flesh between his thumb and forefinger.

"How about this?"

She whispered under the dialogue.

"Yeah," he whispered back. She rolled the muscle there in her grip, and as she worked it the haze deepened. He should warn her not to press too hard, he thought vaguely. She could hurt herself. But he didn't want her to stop. And his eyelids were so heavy. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt like this. Not since leaving Miami. It had been so easy to forget everything in the sun down there, in the hum of energy and peace it gave him. His eyes drifted completely closed, just for a second he thought, and then he was out.

A giggle startled him awake.

He lifted his bleary eyes to the screen, where some blond girl - there seemed to be an awful lot of blond girls in this movie - was kneeling, naked, rocking back and forth and smiling up at the camera while the guy from _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_, also naked, stood over her.

"Oh shit." He fumbled for the remote. "I am so sorry - I didn't know this was like that - I got it off my mom's shelf. I mean, why would she be watching - " He broke off when she began coughing, her body practically convulsing with the effort. "Oh, God. Can I get - do you need some water?"

She nodded, and he ran to the sink, feeling slow and clumsy and too big for everything. She had stopped coughing by the time he brought the water back to her, but she was still shaking and her face was crumpled as she tried to breathe normally.

"Here," he said, offering the glass. She nodded and took it, tossing her head back as she gulped the water down, the muscles in her neck contracting rhythmically as she swallowed.

"Thanks," she said. "Sorry about that."

"Are you alright?"

"I will be." She made another odd face, almost as if she were fighting off a smile. "You look as if you drifted off there."

"I guess. That thing you were doing, that was pretty relaxing."

Her face cleared. "Do you want me to keep doing that?"

"Sure. But, the movie..." He didn't think he'd be able to relax like that if he were watching naked people. Especially if one of them was the old guy who played the rock star.

"It's not a porn," she said, as if reading his mind. "I think you just woke up at a bad time. The joke is that the actors are playing stand-ins for a porn, and they're both really shy, so it's kind of awkward for them."

"Yeah. Awkward for them. Wow. I just ... I didn't want you to think that was why I chose this movie."

"Well, far be it from me to judge the taste of . Or your mom." She made that odd face again, the one that looked like she was trying not to smile and - had she been _laughing_ at him? Before he could think too hard about that she leaned forward, pushing the V of her top apart just a bit. "May I ask you a question?"

He looked up. Her face was calm now, and gentle. His paranoia must have gone into over-drive, he decided.

"Sure."

"You don't have what they - the couple in the movie - were pretending to do on your list."

He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the scene. No. That had not been on his list.

"Charles?"

"No. No, it's not," he said, opening his eyes. "I wanted to concentrate on things I could with you, or _her_ rather, the person I'll be dating, that I wouldn't have to worry about as much."

"Worrying about losing control?"

He didn't want to talk about this. He would have to in a few days with Dr. Foster, he was sure; it was pretty redundant to have to talk about it with her, too. He wanted to just _be_ for a few hours. He should be able to do that. He was paying through the nose for all this, he should be able to -

She was kissing him.

Her eyes were closed, her body was twisting over his, and her lips were pressing up against his, soft little caresses that were completely paralyzing.

Something like lightning shot through him. He clamped his lids down, hard. After the shock passed he realized he was kissing her back. Her mouth was hot from the coffee and tasted like it too, which was a little gross, but the part of him that didn't care what he thought went right on not caring. After a few seconds he decided he didn't really care about it that much anyway. She felt so good, and he hadn't kissed anyone since Lori, and that was three years ago now and -

He blinked.

She'd stopped. She'd stopped kissing him, and was instead staring at him with a little smile.

"You've been wanting to do that all night," she said. "Well, that and see down my shirt, but now we're over that first hurdle, we can ... move on. To other stuff on your list, or, you know. Whatever."

He hadn't, actually, because it hadn't even occurred to him to venture it. But now that she had, it seemed completely pointless to stop doing it just so they could talk.

That wasn't going to get them anywhere. 


End file.
